Cycle
by darkwoodsdreamer
Summary: Again and again, his life repeats itself. This is how it has always been, and he's not willing to change it, even if it is unhealthy. For the No Naming Character Challenge, so I'm not allowed to tell you who it is. It's your job to read and guess. Please?


**This is for the No Naming Character challenge by Love From A Muggle. The whole point was for the reader to guess who the story was about. I think I made it pretty obvious. Review and tell me how you liked and who you think it is!**

* * *

><p>And so the cycle began once more.<p>

It had a very specific order you see. One step out of line would result in traumatic effects. Of course they didn't know that, thankfully, so they kept the cycle going as normal. An unbroken chain, a circle with no end, a way to the world.

This was life for him.

Step 1: Screw up big time. This could be done in several ways. He had already found out that any sort of acting up or swearing of the usual sort by now was such a horrible thing from his mouth - and it was only his mouth, mind. His sibling could say any swear he fancied and never be told off even slightly. If he talked back, lied, wrote letters to his friends, spoke against his parents beliefs which he believed very strongly against, he would be locked in basements and closets for days on end, be starved, be beaten, and generally just treated as cruelly as possible.

It was a sign of how truly bad things really were that he no longer cared. For so long he hated his over controlling and alcoholic father, his disgusting and vile mother, and his brother, the conformist and suck up. But now, these things and names, even the most horrid thoughts that would make any sane person clench his teeth and shake in anger, howl and pound at the floor, struck no flame within him.

He strived to make these things happen. Once he drove his family to do this to him, he had won. He had control. He had shown that they had no power over him. So even though he lay on the floor, broken ribs that threaten to poke out through the skin and his skin one huge bruise, so skinny his hips and spine are showing considerably more then they should, he was happy. He was empowered.

But then would come Step 2.

Step 2: Return to school. This didn't sound bad, and you'd think that this would be great. Away from the family he felt no love for and loathed him in return, able to laugh with his friends and focus on his studies. Discover who he was and what he could do. Become a man. And in the week leading up to his imminent return to the prestigious school, he truly did think these things. He wanted them to be true, wanted to feel like this time, Step 2 wouldn't go the same as always. But of course, if it didn't, the cycle would be broken and he couldn't handle that. The cycle was right. The cycle was pure. The cycle was the way it was. He needed it. And it couldn't change.

So every time he came back, his friends would rush to him the second his parents were gone and force him to go to the medical carriage on the school train where the nurse would fix him. Physically he would be better but mentally he would be worse off than before. His friends, the only things he still had to rely on, would stare with pity and empathy, two things he did not want from them. They would avoid touching him for a few days, as though he was so fragile even a slight playful jostle would cause him to shatter. It was one of the worse steps for him. But it was the most necessary. And so he cherished it.

Step 3: Be happy. Finally, finally he could relax. Once his mates had gotten over their fear of breaking him and turned back into their bright, adventurous and excitable selves, the true fun could begin. Now he could joke and laugh, pretend his home situation wasn't as bad as it really was, and cause students to come to both love and fear him with his habit of causing a scene that, while wonderfully entertaining, could be disastrous for the person on the other side of the wand.

He would ditch class, make fun of teachers, plan their latest schemes, and put the first years in their place. It was definitely his favorite part of the cycle. It was all he could do to contain his joy at being young and free and did whatever he pleased, including when it came to girls. But all good things must come to an end. Step 4 would certainly not being a real end, but it wasn't exactly pleasant.

Step 4: Get a letter from dear Mother. She would send Howlers or regular letters on crisp parchment, sealed with the blood red wax seal he hated to look at or even think about. The minute he saw the owl fly in his heart sank. He would take whatever the owl had for him and read it or possibly attempt to decipher its screeches. He would accept the words as fact, because after all they were. He knew he was a filthy traitor, dirt on his parents shoes, not worthy of his blood status. All of this was perfectly true. But he was proud of it. His mother sat here, yelling what she believed to be insults when really, she was paying him great compliments.

So why was this bad, you might ask? Because of who it was that was calling him these things. His mother didn't want him. His own mother hated his guts. Wasn't your mother suppose to be the one who loved you unconditionally, who always had your back, who was there to catch you when you fell? If his mother didn't want him even, who would? Could he look around at his friends, his best mates, and truly know that they were there for him? Maybe his life was all a hoax and none of what he believed to be true was. Maybe even the cycle wasn't right. How would he move forward with his world flipped upside down like that?

He wouldn't. He would remain firmly in place, not take another step. The others could leave him behind, he didn't care. So long as he had his order, his function, his way of life, he would be okay. But once you took that, he would break so badly you would never be able to put him back the way he was. Humpty Dumpty...

Step 5: Go to alcohol. He always believed the whiskey would make it better. Once he got his hands on a bottle of firewhiskey and could drink himself stupid, everything would be okay. He would forget, forget his horrible past, forget his unsightly present, forget his non-existent future, forget everything. There was no longer a world at all, or a him, or anything. His fears would drop away and drown in the bottomless bottle behind his bed curtains. He would drink until he passed out and enjoy a deep, dreamless sleep in which he no longer even had a body. Now the physical world could drop away and the blackness take over his life. It was good. It gave him a break from everything. And when he awoke with a pounding headache the next morning, he relished in it. It blocked out any conscience thought, made talking or moving impossible and he certainly couldn't go to class. His friends would leave him be for a while, but they always knew. And one of them would always stop it.

Step 6: Get caught. He would settle down with his bottle on his bed and draw his curtains when they would be yanked back and the bottle taken from him. The tiny figure would clutch the bottle for dear life and shake, tawny hair long enough that it had to be pulled back into a ponytail, although at night he let it out so that it brushed his shoulders. He would then realize the boy was crying and pull him close, hugging him and whispering comforting words into his ear as he sobbed into his shoulder. Sometimes during these moments he thought, shouldn't I be the one crying? Shouldn't I be the one seeking comfort? But he never dwelled on it because he knew that wasn't right. He had chosen his path and it didn't include crying over his life. The tawny haired werewolf took his pain for him, channeled it all through himself. He cried for him, and he couldn't thank the boy enough.

And then he would be going back home with false promises to himself that this would stop. That life didn't have to be like this. That he didn't deserve this and would make it all better. But he never did. This was the only life he had ever had or known. He wouldn't know what to do with himself without the cycle. And so he let it continue. It wasn't healthy, it made people worry, it was generally bad, but he couldn't let it go. Was he addicted? He was sure that he was, in fact. But if he got help, he would have to let it go. There was no way to stop it, not that he could see anyway.

But that was okay. It would all work out. He could keep his cycle for a little while longer... Right?


End file.
